


Tied Together

by princesskay



Category: Polar (2019)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 16:14:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17707514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princesskay/pseuds/princesskay
Summary: “So that’s it.” He says, The job is done. You hate me now. You never want to see me again. I understand.”She lets out a breath, and presses a hand to her forehead. “No.”No? All these months of reconnaissance, of waiting, of working rigidly alongside one another to find the answer to her lifelong questions, he’d been holding his breath, expecting the other shoe to drop. He’d lain in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, and wondering - would the money be enough? Once she used him for her purposes, once she killed the people responsible for her family’s death, once she’d had enough of his face reminding her of the worst day of her life, would the money he’d given her to live comfortably be enough? Would it be enough for him to soothe his conscience? And would it be enough for her to know the boundlessness of his regret?And now, she said no. He’d thought he’d figured her out.Camille and Duncan are left with questions after they find the people responsible for her family's death.





	Tied Together

**Manila, The Philippines**

**6 months after retirement**

 

They sit in the hotel room in silence. A metal fan on the bureau blows about the hot, sticky hair seeping through every crevice in the single pane window of the cramped hotel room. 

Camille’s skin, still damp from the shower, is already accumulating a thin layer of sweat. Duncan focuses on the drop of perspiration making a slow descent down the delicate curve of her naked spine. He sucks absently on a dwindling cigarette. 

There’s something heavy in his chest. It’s the knowing. The knowing that it’s done and there’s nothing ahead left to do. Mission accomplished. Mission over. Time to collect the check and go home. 

This time, the prize isn’t money or any other form of monetary or physical compensation. It’s simply that feeling. It’s over. 

He take another puff, and lets out a slow breath. 

It’s hot. Too hot to move. A wild difference from back home. But this is where she grew up, and it doesn’t seem to bother her. 

Camille sits facing that little metal fan, letting it blow dark wisps of hair back from her cheeks. Her elbows are braced on her knees. She doesn’t seem to mind that he’s tracing her bare skin with a methodic gaze. From his position against the metal framework of the headboard, he can’t see much more than the slope of her shoulders and the shape of her ribs. Her face is hidden from him, but even that stiff set of her neck is speaking volumes. 

He waits for her to speak. It comes after several long minutes, when his cigarette is nearly gone. 

“It does feel better.” 

She means revenge. Yes. Yes it does. Anyone who says otherwise is touting some self-righteous, holier-than-thou bullshit. 

“Good.” He says. 

Her head tilts lower, and her ribs expand with a deep breath. “Do you … feel better?” 

_ I feel sorry.  _ But he doesn’t say it. He never feels sorry. Not for the target, or the families. Suffering happens everywhere, every day. Is the the suffering of the family left behind after the target is eliminated somehow superlative to or more precious than everyone else’s suffering? No. Suffering is suffering. It’s the tapestry of life. 

“Yes.” He says, simply. 

He crushes the cigarette into the glass ashtray on the nightstand. The smell of smoke intensifies for a brief second before diminishing. 

“It was over so …” She breaths in shakily, and sniffs against the back of her hand. “... so fast.” 

“You wanted it to last.” 

His statement settles into the muggy air of the Filipino motel room. He didn’t pose it as a question because he already knows. 

“Yes.” She whimpers, tears encroaching onto her icy tone. 

He wants to touch her. Offer some comfort. That would be inappropriate considering he’s the reason she needs comfort. Initially, gangsters here in Manila were responsible, but he pulled the trigger. 

Duncan chews at his lower lip. Her skin looks soft. 

Glancing away, he reaches for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. A diversion. 

She turns suddenly, halfway, just enough so that he can see the puckered profile of her breast. Her eyes are dark with innate sadness he’s come to recognize. 

“I’m stuck with you now, aren’t I?” She asks, sounding angry about it. “You know all my secrets.” 

“And you know mine.” 

Her jaw clenches, and her eyelids flutter a few times to push away the mist of tears. 

“Can I have one of those?” She asks, nodding at the cigarette balanced between his knuckles. 

“This is a terrible habit. You shouldn’t start.” He replies, dismissively. 

Her face twists as he picks up the lighter and presses the cigarette to his lips. Just as he sets flame to the tip, she clambers across the bed and snatches it from his mouth. 

She sits back on her knees and put it in her mouth. He’s momentarily distracted by the naked display of her body. 

“Fuck you.” She says. “You can’t tell me what to do. You’re not my father. You killed my father, you fuck.” 

The sudden vitriol catches him off guard, and for a moment he just looks at her, wide-eyed, open-mouth. 

She sucks on the cigarette, and instantly begins to cough. 

Taking advantage of this vulnerability, he swipes the cigarette from her hand. 

“You see.” He motions to her reaction as she pounds on her chest. 

The coughing eases. She slinks off the bed, and grabs the terry cloth robe from the chair in the corner. Draping it over her shoulders, she goes back to the window and glares down at the crowded streets teeming with pedestrians and street carts hawking their goods. The sounds from below are muted by the dull pressure pounding like a bass drum between them. 

“So that’s it.” He says, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “The job is done. You hate me now. You never want to see me again. I understand.” 

_ I understand.  _

Those were the words she’d wanted to hear all those months ago when she’d confronted him in her bedroom.  _ Do you understand?  _ Yes, he did. More than she knew. 

She lets out a breath, and presses a hand to her forehead. “No.” 

He pauses, intrigued by the answer. No? All these months of reconnaissance, of waiting, of working rigidly alongside one another to find the answer to her lifelong questions, he’d been holding his breath, expecting the other shoe to drop. He’d lain in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, and wondering - would the money be enough? Once she used him for her purposes, once she killed the people responsible for her family’s death, once she’d had enough of his face reminding her of the worst day of her life, would the money he’d given her to live comfortably be enough? Would it be enough for him to soothe his conscience? And would it be enough for her to know the boundlessness of his regret? 

And now, she said no. He’d thought he’d figured her out. 

“No?” He echoes. 

She whirls around, lifting her chin defiantly. “No, Duncan.” 

There’s a brief, breathless standoff between them before she marches across the room to glare up into his eyes. She’s so much smaller than him. He could break her. But in her mind, she’s towering over him, raring for a fight. 

“Don’t you get it?” She whispers, harshly. “We’re tied together now. We are stuck, just like this. You belong to me.” 

He doesn’t react to that bold statement. That much, he already knew. 

“I know everything there is to know about you. At least, all that matters.” She continues, jamming a finger into his chest. “I could end you.” 

He swallows hard. “But?” 

She blinks, as if not expecting him to call her bluff. She should have. They’ve spent months together. Long enough to know he won’t crumble at the slightest scent of bloodlust. 

“But, I don’t want your money.” She continues, crossing her arms. The robe is tied loosely around her waist, coming undone. All of her is coming undone. 

“Too bad. It’s yours.” He says. “I gave it to you.” 

“Well, I don’t want it. I want you.”

He stares her down. He doesn’t have an answer for that. Not even a key to the riddle. 

She shifts closer to him, letting her arms drop. The robe slips open. Fuck. Her breasts slip from the fabric. The coarse, white terry cloth frames the soft, dark pubic hair masking her private parts.  _ Fuck.  _

“All my life, I’ve had a hard time bonding with people, letting them close.” She whispers, her lips quivering around the words. “Afraid they’d leave me, or be taken from me. With you, I know that won’t happen.” 

_ No, it won’t. I’m indebted to you, subservient to you. _ The thoughts come heedlessly, recklessly, pressing hard at the back of his tongue to be etched into sound. 

“It’s hard for me to let people touch me.” She says, her voice dropping lower. She shifts closer to him, her breasts brushing his abdomen. “You’ve taught me everything else.” 

“Camille …” Her name comes out strangled. He doesn’t recognize his own voice. 

“I know.” She says, her eyelids dropping. “I’m ashamed too, but I can’t stop thinking about it.” 

Her hands dart up to clutch his hips, dragging him against her. She presses her forehead to his chest, drawing in a shaky breath. When she lifts her head, her cheeks are flushed. Her eyes a bright with a light he’s never seen. 

He’s not ashamed. The moral code most humans adhere to has never quite stuck in his brain. She is the only thing that’s ever made him feel remotely human. And he feels confused, not ashamed. 

“You hate me.” He whispers. 

“No.” 

The robe drops to the floor. Her hand slithers lower, around his pulsing genitals. 

A groan lurches at the back of his throat. “Yes … yes you do.” 

“Maybe.” She mumbles, rising up on her toes. Her mouth presses hot at his neck. “But there’s this too.” 

He closes his eyes for a few seconds. Risk assessment. If he does this, she’ll be right. He’ll be tied to her forever. There will be no cutting this tie. If he doesn’t, maybe he’ll lose her. No, he can’t do that. Can’t lose the only thing that makes life worth living. 

He reaches up to clutch her by the face, turning her mouth to the swift pressure of his own. She moans against the bracing kiss, her hand circling tighter around his cock. He delves his fingers into her hair, her soft, silky hair. And the floodgates open. 

Everything he’d been holding back comes rushing at him. The aching emptiness, the loneliness, the need, the vapid, pleasureless fucking of whores he’d paid to moan for him. It all crushes against his chest, then disappears, and all he can feel is her mouth under his, her tender, naked body undulating into his grasp. 

He hauls her up off the floor, and carries her to the bed where they crash to the sheets in a pile of twisted, pawing limbs. She tears at his shirt, yanking it over his head, and out of the way of her recklessly clawing hands. She scratches his chest, and then bites it. Her teeth sink into skin and muscle, sucking hard. 

A moan shatters from his throat. He clutches her face, and pushes her back against the pillows. Her mouth shines with saliva, her eyes with the gleam of unbridled need. He pins her by the throat, and kisses her again, this time with the hungry swipe of his tongue. She wriggles beneath him, and clutches at his back. Her nails scrape across skin, not enough to draw blood, but just enough to pleasantly sting. 

Keeping his fingers firmly around her jaw, he sinks down to her jostling breasts. Cupping one in his palm, he brings the dusky tip to his mouth. Her savage wrestling eases as he applies a bit more finesse to the soft flesh of her nipple. A high-pitched moan escapes her mouth. She knots her fingers into his hair while his mouth laves circles around her nipple. When the bud of flesh is hard and flushed pink, he suckles down it. Rhythmically, he draws the perky flesh in and out, against his tongue. 

She whines, arching and wiggling beneath him. 

“Duncan …” She whispers, breathless. 

He moves to her other breast, catching it between his teeth. She goes still to avoid being hurt. He doesn’t want to hurt her. He wants her to be still, to enjoy it. 

He licks her nipple, and watches the flesh rise, hard and wet. 

“Jesus …” She pants, tugging at his hair. 

He hums a reply as he closes his mouth around her breast. He kneads the already lathered nipple between his thumb and forefinger, drawing out a whimper. He sucks on the other one for a methodical minute, letting the pleasure sink in. He can feel her going soft and jelly-like with arousal. 

He lets her nipple slide free of his mouth. 

“Good.” He murmurs as she opens her mouth to draw in a shaky, whimpered breath. He continues to massage her other breast. “How does that feel?” 

Her mouth is frozen open as she shifts her eyes down to meet his. She nods, her eyelids fluttering with blissful shock. 

He slides lower. Her stomach quivers beneath the graze of his mouth. He can smell her. The soap from her recent shower, the fine layer of perspiration, the arousal. He gently opens her legs beneath him. With little urging, she stretches her feet towards either side of the bed. Her toes curl anxiously around the sheets. 

Clutching her bare hip, he travels lower, following the musky scent of her need until he finds the curly patch of hair he’d admired just minutes ago. Already, those minutes feel like a lifetime. 

He slides his thumb down the center until it encounters naked flesh. She’s hot, wet. The humidity in the room increases. He can hardly breathe. 

She whines, her hips arching toward the gentle caress. 

He applies a bit more pressure and presses his thumb lower. Her slick, puffy folds part to the gradual stroke. He lays her open. He can see her opening, drizzling arousal, her clitoris almost visibly throbbing with need. 

“Oh my god …” She gasps, her wide eye pinned to the ceiling. “Duncan …” 

“Look at me.” 

The silence is stifling for a long, terse moment before she slowly moves her gaze from the ceiling to him. 

“You’re close?” he murmurs. 

She nods, biting hard at her lower lip. 

He swirls his thumb into the slick arousal pooling at her opening, and drags it up over her swollen clit. Her hips buck against the slight pressure, and her eyes slam shut. 

“Fuck …” She gasps, a shiver running through her whole body. 

He begins to stroke her, his thumb moving in steady circles around her clitoris, just hard enough to excite. 

Her head drops back against the pillow, her chest convulsing with trapped breaths. Her body goes stiff, every muscle clinging onto the promise of pleasure. When she does breathe, it is a punctuated gasp that’s quickly conserved by the purse of her lips. She wavers on the verge for what seems like an eternity, which in reality is only a matter of moments. 

He counts the revolution of his thumb. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eigh-

She gasps as her hips leap against the pressure of his thumb. Her whole body shakes with waves of pleasure. She comes and comes as he continues to massage her clit, taking her pleasure and stretching it as far as he can, drawing every last quiver and jolt from her body, every last drop of her release from inside her quaking pussy. 

When the orgasm finally eases, she sinks down against the pillows, gasping for breath. 

“Ohhh …” She whispers, pressing a hand to her forehead. 

He eases his thumb away from her, and lets his palm rest against her thigh. 

They both remain still as she catches her breath, keeping her gaze fixed on the ceiling. When her shaking eases, she licks her lips and turns her gaze back to him. She seems to want to say something, but her lips move wordlessly. 

He doesn’t have anything to say. He’s not done. 

He grips the inside of her thigh, and pushes her legs open even wider. Her eyes widen as he smooths his palms across her creamy inner thighs, displaying her dripping pussy in front of him. 

He sees the look of realization in her eyes just before he inclines his mouth to her arousal-glazed folds. He draws his tongue along the outer edges, softly, a tease. 

She gasps, arching wildly against the sheets. Her knuckles twist viciously around his hair. Pinning her hips to the bed, he continues his tongue’s gradual journey up and down the length of her. She wiggles and whines, but her appeals are lost amid the pleasure humming in his mind. The pleasure of making her be still, to endure right before he fucks her sweet, tight pussy first with his tongue, then his finger, and finally his cock. She doesn’t know it yet, but that is what will happen. 

He flicks her folds open his tongue, laying her opening bare once more. His tongue curls along the insides of her of her labia, careful not to touch her clitoris or her taut, dripping hole. 

“Oh-” She chokes on the cry as her body writhes slowly like a snake entranced in it’s charmer’s spell. One foot rises to curl against his shoulder, bracing herself against him, then pushing and heaving against the velvet press of his tongue. 

“Yes …” She moans, a shudder enveloping the affirmative. 

He grips her hips tighter. He’s goes to leave bruises, but on the tender flower blooming beneath his tongue, there will only be the trace of his kiss and the dampness of her climaxes left behind. 

He circles in closer, touches her clitoris for a brief moment, and withdraws to the fringes of her wet labia. A tortured groan rises in her throat and transitions into a squealed whine when he takes one swollen fold in his mouth and sucks it taut against his palate. 

“Jesus … fuck-” She groans, twisting around him. Her heel grinds into his shoulder, only urging him to clamp his lips tighter around her flesh. 

She submits after a mere moment, and he takes the other fold into his mouth. She crumples against him, her body limp with pleasure. This bit of tasty flesh rolls loose and languid across his tongue. He can taste her arousal gushing. She’s going to come harder than she did the first time. 

When he’s done with her labia, they’re puffy and pink with coarse stimulation. Her clitoris quivers, ready to be plucked like ripe fruit. But not yet. 

Gripping the undersides of her thighs, he pushes her knees up against her chest, pinning her helplessly to the bed. She grabs onto the sheets. Her mouth stretches open in a silent howl as he delves his tongue into her. 

She’s wet and delicious, and she opens to the hard press of his tongue as if he’s turned a key perfectly into the lock. Halting breaths rush from her throat, in rhythm with the decisive fucking of his tongue into her pussy. 

“Oh my god …” She moans. Her hand is back at his hair, tugging at handfuls in a pleasure fraught plea for release. 

He goes on fucking her with his tongue just a moment longer, because he enjoys hearing her moan, because claiming her like this feels good and not nearly as shameful as she’d claimed it would. 

When he withdraws his tongue, she’s granted only a second’s reprieve before he replaces it with his finger. He slides one in underhanded and quickly locates the bundle of nerve endings clustered above her clit. He presses his tongue to the swollen bud of flesh, and massages tongue and fingers in tandem, a deep, skilled massage that awakens pleasure. 

Her gasping and the bucking of her hips fragment into dramatic, needy pieces, and it only takes a moment for her to come undone. Her body clamps around his finger, and he feels the first hot rush of wetness. Her moans cut off into a gasp. She bucks against his mouth, deep, hard thrusts that match the frenzied whimpers. Slick arousal gushes down his finger and against his mouth, wetting the insides of her thighs. 

As the orgasm slowly ceases, she falls limp against the pillow. Her foot slips from his shoulder and down his back until her leg is draped across him, holding him in place. He withdraws his finger gently from her, and drops kiss against the hard edge of her hip bone. His mouth lingers there, tasting the softness of her skin. He feels he’s tamed a wild animal. 

She lays still, in silence, gazing at the popcorn ceiling of the dingy motel room. Her breasts rises slowly with a shaky breath. 

“Are you going to fuck me now?” She whispers. 

He licks his lips, tasting the remnants of her arousal. “Yes.” 

Her eyes dart from the ceiling, and he can’t read her. Frightened by the sobriety in his tone, or excited by it? 

She shudders as he slips out from under the weight of her leg, and rocks back on his heels. His cock tents his trousers, blunt and pulsing. 

“Is it going to be hard?” Her voice dips even softer. 

“Is that what you want?”

He drags his thumb across shape of her ankle bone. There’s a small bruise blooming there that most likely came from the fight only hours earlier. It’s strange how often sex intertwines with violence in his life. But this doesn’t feel violent. Not even on the tail of her question. 

Her teeth slide across her lip. She nods, but she’s shaking. 

He reaches down to slide open the zipper of his trousers. The fabric splits open from the hard rise of his cock. His boxers are straining over the swollen head. 

“Don’t worry.” He murmurs, rising to his knees. “It won’t hurt. You’ll like it.” 

“I know.” She says, her voice a husky whisper. 

He peels his boxers away from his erection. She draws in a sharp breath. He’d hard as a rock, as thick as possible with blood pounding through him. Veins snake down the shaft to where his balls hang taut with need. 

She sits up, and reaches out to touch him. He catches her wrist just as her palms settles against the hot shaft. Pleasure sparks through him. He doesn’t want to come in her hand, and if she touches him like this, he just might. 

“Turn around.” He says, guiding her hand away from him. “On your hands and knees.”

She gulps. She snaps into motion, lurching to her knees and scrambling around to face the headboard. She plants herself on her hands and knees, and lets her spine drop, arching her ass toward him as if in offering. 

He takes her by the hips, guiding her softly back toward him. His cock brushes between her ass cheeks, forcing his balls to graze the slickness dripping from her. He purses his lips over a groan. 

Grasping his cock, he pushes the tip down and into her. The tip breaches her wet pussy, and he pushes in slowly, letting her body adjust and take him in naturally. 

“Oh my god …” She gasps, reaching up to grab into the metal rung of the headboard.

Squeezing her hips tighter, he pushes a bit harder and seats his cock deep inside her. His hips slap quietly against her backside. She shivers against him, and lets out a raspy breath. 

“God …” She groans, pushing back against him. “Yes …” 

He lets her submerge into the sensation for just a moment before drawing back, leaving her void, and plunging back in. This time, it’s harder, louder. She moans, her mouth stretched open. He fucks her again. And again. Her eyes are wide with the reverberation of his long, thick cock slamming into her. 

He lets go of control, and his need comes untethered, blustering free in swift, hard thrusts of his hips. He delivers on his promise, rutting into her with pure, animal abandon that causes the metal frame of the bed to squeal and slam into the wall.  She clings to the sheets, her body lurching forward with every blow, only to be repositioned for the next one. 

He fucks her like this for several long moments before he takes her by the back of the neck and pushes her face down into the sheets. A wailing moan stretches from her throat as he rises over her, bracing his hands on the headboard, and begins to pummel her from this steeper position. Bent over, face in the sheets, she’s helpless to do anything but take the blows of his cock as he drives himself toward pleasure. 

He pushes himself until his legs begin to burn and he can feel the pleasure rising like a tidal wave inside him. He slows his thrusting to a deep, slow grind, and finally to a stop. She whimpers breathlessly as he pulls out, and and climbs off the bed. He takes her by the ankles, and pulls her across the mattress to him. Flipping her onto her back, he guides her feet up against his chest. 

She gazes up at him, her eyes wide, dark … and almost adoring. Her pupils are huge and dilated with pleasure. Perhaps that’s all he’s seeing. It has to be. He already cares too much. 

Grasping her hips, he slides back into her. Her eyes snap shut, and the moment is gone. He resumes thrusting into her, as if she’s just another woman, just another whore. He can play this game of pretend until he comes. Only then will the realization come that this is not just another transaction. There’s no money to hand over. No cold disconnect when the deed is done. They are tied together, just like she said - a bond greater than most people will ever experience in their lives. Those other people have love. Duncan and Camille have hate, and regret, and trauma, and anger. They have secrets toxic enough to kill. 

Still, he fucks her and thinks of that girl in Belarus that had slapped him and called him a killer. He thinks about the train whistling by instead of the heat of brightly lit Manila. He thinks of the darkness that draped her thin body and the hiss of foreign words. 

He comes with muted groan and the quiver of his hips unloading release into her tight, wet pussy. 

He opens his eyes to see her lying disheveled, and sweaty beneath him, the glow of youthful abandon on her cheeks. It strikes him now, just how youthful she is. 

He’s seen more than she will ever know. The age is not just written in the lines around his eyes or the gray in his hair; it’s in his soul, a dark mark on his heart, a shadow above his shoulders. He’ll carry the title of killer no matter where he goes, or how far he runs from it. Loneliness is the most merciful punishment for the life he’s led. He doesn’t deserve her. 

He withdraws abruptly, and rushes for the bathroom. Her legs slide from his shoulders, and swing toward the floor. They’ve barely hit the carpet before he slams the door shut behind him. 

He cranks on the water in the shower, and lets it heat up while he leans over the sink. The mirror reflects a conflicted image back at him. He’d not wearing the patch. The missing eye is ugly, visible. He’d forgotten he wasn’t wearing it. Forgot this was the face she was looking at while he devouring the treat between her thighs. Some kind of twisted monster stealing yet another protected part of her. 

_ It’s hard for me to let people touch me.  _

But why me? That was a silly question. He knew why. They’d killed together. Who else could say that? What other courtship could be more concrete? It didn’t matter how ugly he was. He knew every part of her. It was the defining quality of their relationship. 

A soft knock came on the door. 

“Duncan?” 

He closes his eyes. He wants to open the door and tell her that isn’t even his real name. He’d given up his real name a long time ago, and taken on a manufactured identity to maintain anonymity. He is more the Black Kaiser than Duncan Vizla. 

She knocks again. “Duncan?” 

This time, when he doesn’t respond, she opens the door without invitation. 

They stare at each other for a tense, wordless moment before she crosses her arms defiantly. 

“I want you to stop feeling sorry for me.” 

He glances away, but the mirror is right there, reflecting her image. 

“Ever since you met me, that’s all you’ve done.” 

_ Of course. I killed your family.  _

“I did it.” She continues, her voice shaking with sudden tears. “I got revenge … I  _ killed  _ the people responsible. Do I look like a helpless little girl to you, jumping at every loud noise, at every single thought of confrontation? No! I took my life back. And I wanted you.” 

He looks back at her, his gaze drawn by that permanent statement. He can see it like a stain absorbing into fabric. I wanted you. It sounds ugly, like a curse. 

“I did it because it’s what I wanted. All of it. You didn’t take advantage of me.” 

He gazes at her, searching for a reply. Instead, he motions to the water running behind the curtain. “I just wanted a shower.” 

Her mouth compresses into an irritated line. “Fine.” 

He draws in a breath and looks at his feet. “We’re getting the first flight out of here tomorrow morning. It’s going to be early. You should try to rest.” 

“Back to Triple Oaks?”

“Yes. I’ve hidden our tracks here. They won’t know where to look.” 

She nods, her arms tight around her middle. “Then what?” 

He lifts his head. “I don’t know.” 

She nods again. This time, there’s a glimpse of that wide-eyed, little-girl-lost again. But only for a moment. 

She turns and leaves the bathroom, letting the door swing shut behind her. He pulls it all the way closed, and gets into the shower. As the hot water pounds against the back of his neck, he thinks about the cabin back in Montana and what they’ll do once they return. Become neighbors again? Meet at the diner for winter coffee? Pretend their lives blend seamlessly into the boring, hapless lives of the innocents around them? It seems laughable, but he doesn’t have another plan. Maybe this day will become another secret between them, never spoken of. Maybe she won’t let it go. Either way, he knows deeply, instinctively, there’s no going back.  _ They’re tied together _ . Somehow, despite his regrets and his fears, it doesn’t sound so damning. 

 

~the end~

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! :)
> 
> You can also find me on [Tumblr!](https://anck-su-namoon.tumblr.com//)!


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